Page 6 of A Devil in Silk
He swallowed a tender piece of veal, eyes straying to the mantel clock. Seven. An hour until his secret rendezvous with Miss Dalton. The only spark in weeks smothered by duty and dull routine.
Yet even that promise couldn’t dislodge the dread coiling tight in his chest.
Across the walnut table, his mother ate at a snail’s pace, her movements unhurried, her gaze occasionally drifting towards him. She knew he had plans elsewhere, plans she meant to ruin. Her tactics were quiet but effective, honed by years of subtle persuasion. Still, nothing short of force would keep him from meeting his adventuress tonight.
Despite a desire to finish his meal, he hurried things along by setting down his cutlery and dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
His mother glanced up from the carefully arranged food on her plate. “Is the veal not to your liking? I shall tell Mrs Redley to go lighter with the lemon sauce in future. It can be a little harsh on the palate when one’s not quite themselves.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the veal,” Bentley said, and the lemon sauce wasn’t souring anyone’s appetite. “I simply find it hard to eat at the speed of a morsel an hour.”
In her day, Vivienne Sommersby was a diamond of the first water, admired for her vivacity and zest for life. But forty years of heartache had left a woman confined by her fears, her spirit dulled and her world narrowed to the bars of an invisible cage.
“Are you unwell, Mother?”
“Unwell?” She brushed a wisp of grey hair from her brow as if it were an arduous task she had been avoiding. “Not at all. I prefer to take things slowly in my dotage. Even my meals.”
“Dotage? You’re barely sixty.”
“What pleasures are left, other than seeing my beloved son marry?”
An awkward pause ensued.
The silence pressed down on him, as heavy as her expectations.
“Did Madame Véline call today?” he asked before sipping his wine, though he wanted to toss back the claret in one swift gulp.
His mother offered another weak smile, the kind that always tugged at his heartstrings. “Yes, she measured me for two new gowns, both in midnight blue silk.”
“We agreed you would choose something brighter.”
She hadn’t worn pastel shades since the death of Bentley’s older brother thirty-five years ago, a brother he had never met, though they toasted Marcus at Christmas, on birthdays, and every Sunday, along with the other two babes she had lost.
His mother winced. “A lady must dress to suit her age.”
Yet she had worn some form of half-mourning most of her adult life. The beautiful young woman whose portrait hung on the staircase wall beamed with happiness, a rare sight in reality.
“Sarah said darker colours suit my complexion,” she added, referring to her precious goddaughter, Miss Woodall, and Bentley’s soon-to-be fiancée unless someone spoke up to prevent the tragedy. “She came to visit while the modiste was here. You know she has such a great eye for detail.”
He knew very little about Sarah Woodall other than she was too opinionated and was a staunch supporter of radical reform, much to her family’s chagrin.
How were they supposed to create a life together when they could barely tolerate each other’s company? How would they raise children when Miss Woodall held such uncompromising views?
He shivered. The thought of bedding her chilled him to the marrow.
Reading his mind, his mother said gently, “Have faith, Bentley. Love is a fantasy. One that cannot survive the strain of real life. Emotions are a dreaded inconvenience in a marriage.”
A belief she drilled into him daily.
He decided to broach the sore topic again. “We’re not suited, Mother. We have nothing in common. I envisage years of abject misery ahead.”
“Nonsense. We agreed to unite our families the day Sarah was born.” She speared an asparagus tip, cutting it into neat pieces just to prolong his agony. “A vow sworn before God Himself, and respected ever since.”
“I was ten when Sarah was born. Forgive me if I cannot recall the conversation.” Yet he was being punished for his mother’s grief.
“Nothing matters more to me than your health and happiness, Bentley.” She sounded sincere, as if she meant every word. “I thought love could move mountains. I was wrong. I’ll not have you suffer the same way I did.”
Vivienne Sommersby had married for love. But that love had withered and died with the loss of three children. To her, affection was fragile. Duty endured. And she truly believed that was enough.
